


youth bleeding in the square

by harringtonsroses



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: After it all ends, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drabble Collection, Game of Thrones - Freeform, Gen, Poetic Justice, more characters to be introduced - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-28 15:48:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18759514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harringtonsroses/pseuds/harringtonsroses
Summary: A series of little ficlets about what happens after it all ends. Each one focuses on a different couple/ship, and how I want it all to end...fix-it, I suppose.Title comes from the Florence + the Machine song, '100 Years'.





	1. The Bull and the She-Wolf

**Author's Note:**

> hi!! something I've wanted to do for a while, thought I'd do it here! It's part canon/part theory, because gods-only-know whatever the fuck D&D have planned for us all! Bit of a fix-it, but I will do requests and add characters in if people want it so.

She is just shy of nineteen-years-old when she bears her daughter, her sister and lover standing on either side of her bloody bed.

She has been through so much in her short life, so why is it this that hurts her the most? 

The war ends eight months earlier, in blazen flames and screaming common-folk, though not the way people except. 

It doesn’t end with the Mad Dragon Queen slain at the hands of her nephew and lover, still laughing mercilessly as her fires tear down King’s Landing. His blade breaking through his lover’s chest doesn’t end the war, though people think it to be him. 

It doesn’t end with the Weary Lion stumbling through the streets of the city to the Red Keep, slaughtering countless Lannister servants, tearing down the Mad Lion Queen’s Hand, the Crow’s Eye and the furious King’s Guard in a desperate attempt to slay his sister. It doesn’t end with him, sat at the feet of the Iron Throne, staring down at her dead body and wishing it’d been him who’d done the deed. 

It definitely doesn’t end with the younger dog killing his older brother, nor the Lady-Knight saving her Weary Lion from the siege of Lannister soldiers, nor the Imp dying at the hands of the Dragon’s wrath, not even at the Young Bull desperately trying to find his wild She-Wolf.

It ends with her. 

With a girl with a skinny blade and a vicious vendetta. 

A girl with a list. 

And the last name crossed off. 

Cersei Lannister’s blood spurts dramatically from her broken chest, when Needle pierces her back and sinks into flesh. 

She cries and screams and tries to run and Arya watches her die. 

Takes Needle one last time, and pushes it against the dying woman's neck, hard until it breaks through skin, tissue, muscle and bone, and her head is hanging on by a thick thread of sinewy flesh, face contorted hideously.

It is as though she is done. She has nothing more to do now. Her list is done, each and every name crossed off. 

She runs from the dead Lion Queen.

She runs past Jaime Lannister and Brienne of Tarth, fighting back to back against maybe thirty, possibly one hundred Lannister soldiers. She doesn’t bother to count, leaves a handful of them bleeding out as she runs. 

She runs past her brother, sobbing over the body of his Dragon Queen, sees a poetic irony in the way two children raised as siblings grew to be the two to kill the two Mad Queens. She knows they will write stories about them, songs too. Like the songs Sansa loved when they were little girls.

She runs. 

She runs for a long time, violently aware of the life within her belly. Even, after one particularly miserable night, considers sticking a knife into her womb. 

It feels like a long time to Arya, but it’s no more than a few weeks. 

She steals a horse and rides it North.

Where else would she go? 

There, she finds everything she left behind, and realises she’s become so good at lying she’s even convinced herself she won’t go back to Winterfell. 

Winterfell with its broken walls and its torn-down-towers. Winterfell, that to Arya Stark, reminds her violently of those who grew up there.

Her sister, poor, poor Sansa. All she’d ever wanted was to be a pretty princess in a castle, to have babies for a handsome prince and grow up a queen. She’d paid the price for little girls’ dreams. She’d paid the price a thousand times over.

The broken bricks lying at the feet of the crooked tower lay like the Lady of Winterfell’s broken heart lay upon Theon Greyjoy’s breast, in the little silver direwolf pin upon his chest.

Her little broken brother. Bran isn’t Bran anymore, Bran died the day he was pushed from the tower window by Jaime Lannister. The thing bundled up in thick furs in his place has Bran’s face and Bran’s voice, but its eyes are pools of jet black and its words are that of a god. 

Even being crowned the King of the Seven Kingdoms cannot bring him back to life.

Even Meera Reed’s gentle hands cannot guide him back to who he was, like how those who Sansa has hired to rebuild Winterfell’s walls just do not seem to be able to build it back up the way it was. 

Her older brother is long gone, a shadow of a brave man all in black, sat alone on the Wall, guarding Westeros against a threat that won’t ever come again. 

Arya is the last of them to return.

Her sister pulls her close, her brother’s deep dark eyes blink and he turns away from her, and Gendry Waters’ eyes widen.  
Arya Stark has never been one to fall in love. She was never the romantic one. 

She presses her lips against his, whispers her news into his ear, watches his blue eyes widen even more.

Their daughter is born exactly eight months after the the Battle of the Mad-Queens, as it has been dubbed. 

She, they decide, is called Lyanna. 

For her aunt, and for all the mistakes his father made trying to get her.

For them.


	2. The Weary Lion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drabble about Jaime! A little idea I had because I refuse to accept the destruction of his character arc, and the idea he might actually go back to Cersei...a waste of a brilliant character, one of my favourites, and I may write about him again in the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope y'all enjoy! I will be doing more, probably a few tributes to some of my favourites who have died (spoiler! Margaery, Missandei, Theon) and some characters like Meera and Yara. Will take suggestions! <3

They do not call him the Kingslayer, anymore. Nor, Oathbreaker, or Man Without Honor.

At least, not to his face, as they once did. Whispered behind his back, yes, but now, he has another name.

 _The Weary Lion_.

It isn’t really a compliment, but it’s better than Kingslayer, or Oathbreaker, or Man Without Honor.

It means he’s not seen as the monster they all saw him as, it means, and he thinks, that he is free.

It is for his prowess at the Battle of the Mad Queens that he is forgiven.

Widow’s Wail slides through flesh as easily as a new butter-knife through butter, cutting deeper and deeper through man after man. He kills and kills and kills the Lannister soldiers, maybe fifty, probably one-hundred.

The Hand of the Queen, the wrinkled, sick old sack of hatred whose reedy voice peels into high-pitched screeches when he is found, is an easy kill. He sinks against the wall and begs and dies, right there and then, the shining blade sinking into his chest with a satisfactory groan.

The Kraken is a pitiful enemy for the Kingslayer. He is already drenched in blood, bursts through the doors to the Red Keep in Stark armour, and the Ironborn man with his ball-and-chain weapon charges pathetically. It only takes few moments of hacking and slashing and he falls, the spiked ball crashing to the ground, his tactics far superior to the ‘Crow’s Eye’.

The King’s Guard he once was a part of him charge one after the other, then all at once, and they fall as easily as the skinny old Qyburn and the reckless Euron, one after the other, their blades cutting into the thick steel of Jaime Lannister’s Stark Armour.

He doesn’t bleed.

He wonders whether it’s something to do with the armour. It’s not the King’s Guard armour, intricate, heavy and thick. It’s lightweight and thin and easy to move in, and he finds himself faster than ever.

The King’s Guard are yet again, a pitiful enemy for the Kingslayer.

 _No_.

The King’s Guard are a pitiful, pitiful enemy for Jaime Lannister.

Jaime Lannister, full of rage, and hatred, and anger, and furious, furious, furious fire.

The woman he once loved sits on the throne, calling for his death, for his brother’s death. He wants to kill the woman he once loved.

He doesn’t.

By the time he’s killed the bumbling idiots calling themselves the King’s Guard, she’s already dead. Sat upon the throne as though alive, her head hanging to her body by a thick chunk of uncut, sinewy muscle, blood spilling down the steps in a crimson river pooling about his boots. He stumbles, trips over his own feet, falls to his knees as he realises.

He’s so, so weary.

Tired.

The tower above him begins to shake and break and the dragon’s claws dig deep into the brick.

Silver brown brick falls down around him, crashing and breaking and shattering. His leather gloves soak up his sister’s blood and he shakes.

 _I will die_ , he thinks.

A hand grabs his shoulder roughly, and the Lady-Knight of Tarth is holding him upright.

She drags him through the Sept, past the hundred-or-so men he has killed, doubled by the ones she has, still hacking through them again and again. 

His legs do not work, and perhaps it is indeed lucky that she is a great big woman, dragging him through the burning streets of King’s Landing.

On eye-level with death, it seems, all he sees is blood. His own pale skin is stained with his sister’s blood, her lover’s, her madman’s, her guards’, and the people in the streets are stained with their own blood. A little girl, sobs over her mother, speared by an Unsullied, a youthful man’s head separated from his body, so on and on.

Jaime is dropped in front of the gates of King’s Landing.

 _The battle is won_. She says.

Her eyes are big wide blue sapphires beneath her helmet, and all he feels is regret.

 _No_.

All he feels is tired.

Hence, the Weary Lion is perhaps not such a bad name.

It is not whispered, like the Dead Lion, his brother, slaughtered for saving his life, the Mad Lion, his sister.

The Weary Lion, he is named, for the deep purple shadows under his eyes and the constant vigilance of his guard. He will guard the Lady of Winterfell and her flaming hair till the end of his days, he decides.

And perhaps, one of those days, the Lady-Knight of Tarth will speak his name again.

Perhaps she will forgive his words.

One of those days. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope y'all enjoyed! Please leave your opinions below and tell me if there are any little pieces you want done on a specific character! <3


	3. The Black Wolf-Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon is a character I struggle to write but I thought I'd try anyway! Just Jon's thoughts after it all ends, similar to the others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to do some more ship ones (Braime, Gendrya), and some separate ones of various characters, Meera, Brienne, Gendry, Sansa (fave), so I hope y'all enjoy this one!

He is ashamed.

Fearfully ashamed of what he has done.

Violently ashamed of what his love has made him do. His love, and his stupid, stupid, righteous mind.

The Wall still takes all the ashamed, all the stupid, all the shameful, all the fuck-wits and idiots who’ve made too many countless mistakes.

He’s one of them.

He is praised. Praised for his stupid, shameful actions. His stupid, shameful actions that help end the Battle of the Mad Queens.

He _hates_ that fucking name.

She was never mad.

Only angry.

Vengeful.

And he understood that. He understood why she’d been angry, he still understands why she’d been angry. Everyone she’d loved, everyone had left her.

Even him.

But it ends up anyway, that it has to be him.

She’s screaming upon Drogon, howling and ordering death and murder upon the poor people of King’s Landing, and he can’t. He can’t let her kill them all. He can’t let her fall into the rut that the Mad Lion Queen wants her too.

He can’t.

The Unsullied run wild till their leader is put down, the Lady-Knight of Tarth sees to that, her sword digging into Grey Worm’s chest and sending him to an unfortunate grave, though it’s necessary enough to get his army to stop. She screams some more from her position, stood beside her dragon upon the roof of the Red Sept, her hair tumbling down around her face stained and burned with the blood of her so-called enemies.

She isn’t the woman he fell in love with, he thinks.

He climbs up the side of the sept the best he can, sends an apologetic bellow down to the Tarth woman’s squire and the Baratheon blacksmith who fight off the swarm of Lannister soldiers and Golden Company sellswords desperately, slashing and hacking to defend him.

Drogon’s eyes are huge glowing orbs of fire that stare down at him, but the dragon doesn’t roar. Doesn’t warn his mother of the danger to come.

Maybe the dragon knows.

Maybe his flaming eyes see more than them.

Her blue eyes bulge maniacally, and it is as though she knows what he is there to do, as he pulls himself up onto the roof of the sept.

Down below them is a moving sea of flaming red and crimson, screams and shouts and cusses and so, so, so much blood.

So much death.

So much of everything that he wants to stop.

Now all he wants to stop is her.

 _Chaos_ , she whispers.

He looks down upon the swell of battle with a knot-ever-growing in his gut. Gendry Baratheon, or Waters, he cannot remember whether he rejected the legitimisation upon arrival in King’s Landing, roaring furiously, the Bull, swinging his warhammer and bringing down upon skulls that shatter like bird-eggs. Beside him, Podrick Payne, his voice high and angry, slashing and smashing and growling like some untamed bear as he defends the wall of the sept.

The Hound lays dead in the centre of it all, a neat little hole poked in the middle of his chest, his great big brute of a brother trampled and crushed down to a pulp beside him. They have fought themselves to death, no use in this battle.

There are very few people here truly battling for life.

The two at the bottom of the sept wall, maybe a few more, but even the Lady of Tarth has her own motives, dragging a dying lion from the fires below where Jon stands, slashing and hacking and begging for the dying man at her feet to respond.

 _They_ are selfish, in battle.

Vengeful.

 _No glory comes to the selfish or vengeful_ , he thinks.

His queen stares at him, and maybe for a moment, there is some semblance of the woman he loved.

 _Dracarys_ , she says.

Drogon does not respond, continues to coil himself around the crumbling sept, his nostrils flaring billows of glorious smoke.

She crumples.

Tears of rage, maybe sadness, maybe fear?

He doesn’t know. He kneels down, maybe, there’s a chance. Before he can get the words to form, she speaks, and he knows. He knows what he has to do.

 _Burn them all_ , are her last words.

Maybe it’s because she killed Tyrion.

Varys.

Maybe that’s why it’s easier to drive the sword into her breast.

Maybe that’s why.

Her blood gushes down her chest, furious flames licking at their feet as he pulls his sword from her chest.

A man does not cry in battle, but he is not a man. He is a monster, a thing, a beast, a traitorous creature who should not be allowed to walk free. Maybe he is part monster, part man, for he’s never heard of a sobbing monster, yet here he is.

The tears fall freely.

The body of the woman in front of him is limp and bloodied, the last etches of maniacal laughter scarring her once beautiful face. He has messed up many a thing, but perhaps the blood spattering her face is the worst.

As he begins his climb back down the sept wall, tears still streaking his grimy face, Drogon flies. Drogon flies with his mother in his jaw, careful not to crush her frail body, away.

Away from King’s Landing, away from it all.

Jon wishes he could join the dragon.

Jon wishes he could join his queen, so justly killed.

Jon wishes he were a better man, wishes that the Wall is not the only place he feels human.

He wishes that he hadn’t made all those pledges, all those promises, all those oaths.

Then, it wouldn’t matter.

He could’ve killed her, and nobody would care.

But because a nephew killed an aunt, everyone cares. Because the King in the North killed the heir to the throne, everyone cares. Because the man broke the pledge and killed his queen, everyone cares.

They might as well call him Oathbreaker, Man with no Honor. That burden no longer belongs to the Lannister, he has retired to guarding Jon’s sister in the North, on a pledge he made to Catelyn Stark.

They call Jon the Queenslayer, now.

Queenslayer, his name to the end of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope y'all enjoyed, I struggled writing this one but I quite like how it turned out! Please leave comments and tell me what you think! <3


	4. The Lady Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa is a beautifully acted character and one of my personal favourites, highly underrated in my opinion! Wanted to write a little chunk about her and her role in the battle. 
> 
> Hope y'all enjoy!! <3

Her hair is _fire_ , tumbling down her scarred shoulders.

She has so, so many scars.

Joffrey, Ramsey, every man who has ever misplaced a hand upon her snow-white skin.

Scars pink and grey and purple and striping her skin.

Scars cruel and harsh and furious and striping her soul.

Scars worded and spoken and unspoken and striping her mind.

The Lady of Winterfell _has_ no scars, she understands that.

The Lady of Winterfell _must_ be brave and tall, and steely-eyed and justly-minded.

The Lady of Winterfell _is_ all of those things, and has no scars puckering her back and stomach, nor no scars lining the inner folds of her soul, no scars biting and scratching and nagging at her mind. She helps them to defeat the enemy at the Battle of the Mad Queens. With her she brings little Sweetrobin Arryn, the Lords and Knights of the Vale, Meera Reed and the army of the crannogmen, and with her she brings the Lady-Knight of Tarth and her squire, the wildling warriors.

Every soldier, every fighter, she can bring, she does.

Her bastard brother-

_No_.

Aegon Targaryen the Second. That is his name. He is her brother all the same, and his face lights up in wild recognition, midway through hacking down some Lannister soldier.

She lets her hair run wild during that battle. It is not pinned up nor braided nor pulled back so tightly she cannot think. It is free.

She is free.

Sat upon her snowy-white mare, glaring up at the flaming tendrils creeping up the walls of King’s Landing, Sansa Stark makes a decision. The fire of the battle is like her hair, rippling waves of orange flame.

Sansa Stark joins the battle.

Before they leave for King’s Landing, she gets the blacksmith Jon brought with him to Winterfell to make her asword, a balanced longsword that fits in a slipped sheath at her waist.

She’s not the strongest, nor the most skilled, but she’s _angry_.

_She’s really fucking angry_.

Her mare is swift and fast and darts through the soldiers on all sides, and instead of taking the Lady-Knight of Tarth’s method and slashing and hacking, she follows her sister’s style. Stabbing and dashing at necks and heads and faces, Sansa Stark kills for the first time.

Or at least, she kills by her own gloved hand.

Armour with the Stark sigil carved into the breastplate and shoulders twisted into howling wolves, the Lady Wolf of Winterfell is a threatening figure amongst the fire and blood, hair rippling behind her and sword stabbing.

She fights for a long time.

She’s never been a physical fighter.

She’s only ever fought with words.

But now, she doesn’t care. She’s glad to have a sword. She’s glad to do what she always feared her sister for, she’s glad to kill.

It feels right.

It feels fucking right.

She doesn’t stop.

She fights for a long, _long_ , time. She sees the battle unfold all around her, instead of from afar, and maybe her sister is right.

There is a beauty in death.

There is a beauty in life as well, though.

Now, though, Sansa sees the truest beauty in fight.

There is a beauty in the Lady-Knight of Tarth screaming bloody murder as she drags the Weary Lion from the burning sept, moments before it crumbles to the drag, slashing and hacking through the crush of bodies to save him.

There is a beauty in Sandor Clegane dying upon one final victory, finally driving his longsword through his brother's broad chest, only for her sister's sword to slide through his chest slickly, as she dashes away.

There is a beauty in Jon falling to his knees at the foot of the crumbled walls of the Sept, sobbing whilst the Blacksmith Bull smashes skulls and the Lady-Knight’s Squire slashes throats.

There is even a beauty in the deaths of the two Mad Queens, both slaughtered by a former lover, turned to hate, turned to fear.

Sansa has turned from love, to hate, to fear, to stone-cold.

She is, and will always be a lady.

And a lady can be a fighter, but a true lady will never get blood under her nails like a stable boy gets horseshit under his nails.

She doesn’t wear a helmet, either, so those she kills will see the face of the North before they fall.

They will see the Lady of Winterfell when they fall.

They will see Sansa Stark, when they fall.

Winterfell _loves_ her.

The North _loves_ her.

The Lady of Winterfell is a beautifully powerful woman, with all her mother’s colour and glory, and her father’s cold stare. She has her own little Lady-Guard, whilst her brother sits on the throne in the South, she does not need his hand or King’s Guard.

She has Brienne of Tarth, sworn to protect her by a promise to her mother she refuses to break.

She also has the Weary Lion, Jaime Lannister, who falls on his knees before her, and swears and swears and swears that he will protect her till the day he dies. To prove he is more than just an Oathbreaker, she thinks. To prove he can keep the oath he made to her mother, to Brienne. It makes sense, she supposes.

So they are her guards, though really, she needs little guarding. She appreciates them, all the same.

The two best swordsmen in all of Westeros, it is whispered.

And Podrick.

He's in a world of his own.

She _won’t_ spread the rumours, she is no Littlefinger or Varys, and she should know now, by them, that rumours always end in death.

She whispers _no more_.

She speaks the loudest at Winterfell.

When Arya arrives in Winterfell, Sansa hugs her harder than she has ever done again. She orders the maesters to care for her sister when she bears her child, sits by her side through the long night, and watches the babe be born as the new towers of Winterfell rise.

Sansa Stark won’t ever fall in love again.

Her last love burns away in roaring flames with Theon Greyjoy’s dead, _dead_ body.

_They call her the Lady Wolf_.

They call her the Lady Wolf for she is as beautiful as her mother was, but her claws are as sharp as her father’s were. Her gaze freezes those it falls upon, punishing and harsh, the silly little girl from Winterfell long gone.

The silly little girl _dies_ with Theon Greyjoy.

_But_.

Maybe there is still a very little bit of the silly little girl from Winterfell left.

The silly little girl is jealous of her younger sister’s freedom and lover and her pretty little blue-eyed babe.

The silly little girl wants to be loved.

Sansa Stark will push the silly little girl to the back of her mind and carry on ordering the rebuild of Winterfell, because the silly little girl is now help to her now.

_The silly little girl is no help to the Lady Wolf._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope y'all enjoyed! Please leave your opinions below and tell me if there are any little pieces you want done on a specific character! <3

**Author's Note:**

> hope you all enjoyed! Please tell me what you think in the comments, I thrive off of responses! <3
> 
> Characters I will be doing: Jaime (done), Jon (done), Sansa (doe), Arya, Podrick, Brienne, Davos, Bran, Meera  
> Ships: Gendrya (done), Braime
> 
> If there are anymore you want, please request!


End file.
